No one she felt closer to
by HannaDoo
Summary: In his last week before going to war, Branson has a surprise for Sybil.
1. Chapter 1

**So, yes, I haven't written fanfiction in a while. Hadn't had enough time/imagination to do so. I'd been considering creating a Sybil/Branson story ever since I saw them together for the first time, so I tried to see what I could do. This is (part of) what I managed to get. Any sort of comments will be very, VERY welcome. Hope you enjoy!**

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><p>It was incredibly difficult for Sybil to hide her excitement. She took a deep breath and tried not to think too much about it before she rang the bell to call Anna. The maid seemed to be surprised with her specific request for a very simple hairstyle. Nervously, she added that helping a charity in the middle of a war was certainly not the moment for ostentation. Anna nodded and continued brushing her hair, but she could still see a hint of suspicion in her eyes. It could have been just in her imagination, but she trusted Anna; even if she were to think Sybil was plotting something, she would never comment or gossip about it. Now that Gwen had left to achieve her dream, she was glad she was the maid who took care of her. Sybil would hate to have somebody like O'Brien that close and could not think of a reason her mother was so attached to her.<p>

Soon, she was at the door, with the plainest appearance she had managed to get, following the chauffer's instructions. He was there, holding the door open and greeting her with a very serious and simple: `Good morning, Lady Sybil.´ He was very aware that her father, who had never again completely relied on Branson after the Count in Ripon, was near. To be honest, what Lord Grantham did, under no circumstances, trust was not Branson on his own; whatever his political ideas were, he was an excellent chauffer and a responsible and honest employee. What made him nervous was the combination of Branson and Sybil. He had his ideas, she had hers and the more time they spent together, the more those ideas sounded more alike, which seemed to encourage both to share them with the rest of the world every single day, which was, frankly, unendurable sometimes.

No sooner had they driven away from the building, Sybil's eyes met Branson's in the rear-view mirror and she couldn't help giggling.

"I hope milady realises this is a serious issue, and we could both get into unwanted trouble if anybody found out. I wouldn't like to be fired one week before going to war. That would be an enormous streak of bad luck," he said, a hint of bitterness in his smirk.

Sybil's smile fainted.

"Don't worry. Nobody will ever know," she assured him, ready to change subject. "Do you think this will do?" she enquired, pointing at her clothes.

Branson laughed a hearty laugh.

"It absolutely won't, milady. But there's a plan B, so there's no need to worry."

"Thank you so much, Branson! I know you're taking risks here. I promise I won't let you down and I will do exactly as you say. It won't be like Ripon. At all," she said, very with a very straight face. She had never completely forgiven herself for being such a foolish, thoughtless person and putting his job in danger.

It had been her dream for a long time. She had been reading, more and more eagerly, books about History, Politics, even Philosophy. The more she learnt, the more she wanted to learn. And after all that learning process, she felt the impulse... more than an impulse, she felt the NEED to be an active part of it. The first time, during a drive to the tailor, she gathered the courage to ask Branson to take her with him to a socialist rally, he almost crashed the car into a tree. And still, after he got off to check the damage, all he kept saying was: "insane... insane... insane."

As many times as she had tried with different arguments and different approaches (from batting her eyelashes at him to women's rights), he had refused to even discuss the question. Until that day in the summer of 1.915.

He stopped the car by a little cottage near the village they were going to. A couple was waiting by the door. Branson introduced them as his friends Luke and Helen Smith. Soon, Helen took Sybil towards her bedroom and gave them some clothes to change into. Sybil thanked her shyly, feeling bad for borrowing things from somebody who was obviously less fortunate than her in economic terms.

"Brandon told me milady did not probably have anything to wear that would let her go unnoticed at the rally," she smiled kindly, "this is not anything like what a Lady usually wears, but it will serve this purpose. If there's anything else Lady Sybil needs..."

"Please, call me Sybil. Even if we have just met, you are behaving like an old friend to me, shouldn't we talk to each other as friends, then?"

Helen left her alone in the room so she could get changed. The dress was a little too wide in some places, a little too narrow in others, but all in all it fitted her and it wouldn't get the extra attention her real clothes would in the rally. Helen's shoes, on the other hand, were too small and they were killing her. She decided to change back into hers. The dress was long enough to cover them and, besides, there was absolutely no point in living the thrill of listening to a live socialist speech if you had to spend the whole time suffering an excruciating pain which wouldn't let you give the speakers your undivided attention. With one look at the mirror (she was, after all, a young lady), she met Helen, Luke and Branson. The moment she saw him, she stopped in her tracks. He had changed his clothes too, taking off his uniform, and he looked much younger than usual. "Way too young to have to go to war", she thought.

He offered her his arm and Branson's friends and themselves walked to the village. During her whole life, Sybil would remember that day at the rally as one of the best she had lived through. She listened to the speakers, trying not to miss a single word, hoping she could really talk to someone about the things she was learning instead of having all the dull conversations of her everyday life. Soon, that would be the only kind of conversation she would be allowed to have. It was bad enough not to talk about anything interesting during the season in London (intelligent conversation frightened suitors, according to Grandma), but how was she going to survive when Branson left? How was she going to say goodbye to him? How could she be driven anywhere if he wasn't the one behind the wheel? How was she expected to even look at the car without her heart breaking for her friend being in such danger? How long would it take him to be back? Because not being back was simply not an option. She had absolutely forbidden him to die and she was nothing if not stubborn. He was standing next to her and, out of an impulse, she mimicked his gesture in the garden party the year before. She brushed her fingers softly with his and Branson took her hand. From the corner of her eye, she could see a smile curling his lips. He could probably see hers, too. In the middle of that silent gesture, she kept thinking that there was no one on earth she felt closer to. And they were taking him away from her.


	2. Chapter 2

**Chapter 2. Very, very late, I'm aware. On the plus side, I've loads of time to write right now and there's only one more chapter to go. Hope you enjoy!**

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><p>Sybil was absorbed by the speeches she was listening to. She was barely aware of what was going on around her. Nevertheless, Branson was in charge of that. He could not help being terrified of her going through any sort of incident in the rally, so he had made it a personal duty to be on constant alert, just in case things got out of control. More and more people arrived at the little square where the rally was taking place. He noticed some people in the crowd seemed to be pushing their way to the front and, instinctively, he changed his position to one behind her, so Lady Sybil would be protected from being pushed. He didn't know why standing behind her was not enough, why he felt the need to put his hand in her waist. It might have been because that way it would be easier not to lose her if there were any unexpected disturbs at the rally. Maybe he simply couldn't stand breaking the physical contact.<p>

She had been enjoying the warmth of their intertwined hands, how firm and big his seemed against hers and how, still, they fitted perfectly. Suddenly, he was not there anymore. She was startled for a moment until she realized he was standing protectively behind her back, a tight grip on her waist. Very, very improper. She smiled. Very improper Branson was even better than the usual just mildly improper Branson.

A man around her father's age nudged Branson good-naturedly:

"Don't you lose sight of her. Beautiful and interested in changing the world. She's a keeper. And you're a lucky, lucky lad," he joked.

Branson was caught off-balance, considering whether he was overstepping boundaries, wondering if he had been too bold taking her there, gripping her waist just like he was. Sybil wanted to say that she was the lucky one, having met him, having seen what the world outside hers was like thanks to him. But she only smiled to the man who had just talked to them and briefly caressed Branson's knuckles with the tips of her fingers. She wondered if that was it: a question of clothes. Had they been wearing their real clothes, the ones they wore in everyday life, nobody would have mistaken them for an adorable couple. Nobody would have joked with them like that. They would have only found rude, accusing stares and malicious comments. She had already noticed, on the way to the rally, how the world suddenly behaved in a different way to her. It seemed so utterly stupid, how society would treat differently the exact same people just depending on the pieces of clothing they were wearing.

After some more minutes, Branson whispered in her ear (it was too noisy to get oneself understood in a normal tone at a normal distance... not that any of them was complaining) it was time to go. They still needed to get changed at his friends' house and get back to Downton Abbey at a reasonable time.

He gave her his arm again on the way. Branson had a key, as his friends were going to stay at the rally until it was over. He unlocked the door and, once inside, asked her whether she had enjoyed the experience:

"It's been... it's been... Oh, Branson, I have no words to describe this. Thank you so much. Thank you for trusting me, for knowing this wasn't the whim of a rich lady, for taking risks for me and letting me meet your friends. Will you thank them again for me, too?"

Branson smiled that incredible smile of his, the one that felt so sincere and made his eyes sparkle and, specially out of that uniform of his, made him look so young. It was an impulse, and she never knew why or how she had even dared, but she hugged him. She hugged him for the first pamphlet on women's rights he had given her, for all the conversations they had had in those years, for the books he had recommended and for all the times he had made her laugh. And, above all, she wasn't hugging her chauffer, she was hugging the friend the army was taking away from her, the one she didn't know if she would ever see again.

He had never had her that close. Not since the day of the count in Ripon, when he had to carry her in his arms. But this was different. He could smell the perfume in her hair and feel the heat of her body against his. He wondered if she could hear his heartbeat, which was going so fast at the moment, it felt like his heart was just going to jump off his chest. He was never one for sensible decisions, his mum used to tell him when he was younger. Intelligent and a good boy, but as reckless and bold a child could be. His character somehow calmed a bit after adolescence, but, deep down, it was still him. He lowered his forehead to Sybil's and waited a moment for any sign of rejection.

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><p><strong>Reviews are love.<strong>


	3. Chapter 3

**Finally, the last chapter of my fic. Enjoy!**

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><p>He told himself it was going to be nothing but a brush of lips. A memory to have close to his heart while in a God-forbidden dirty trench somewhere in the continent. And if he died, he wouldn't die not having kissed the lips of the woman who had owned his heart and his soul for years. To be honest, he was afraid of her reaction, but not as terrified as of his feelings ending up buried in a mass grave together with his body, never to be discovered by the person that mattered to him the most. So he kissed her softly, hoping she wouldn't slap him.<p>

She didn't. And yet, the kiss was nothing like what Branson had anticipated. It sure started careful and innocent, but it soon became daring and passionate, and not entirely because of him. Sybil's hands caressed the back of his neck and ruffled his usually very neat hair. His hands remained glued to her shoulders, not moving since he had started the kiss. He was too afraid of what they would do if he let them roam on their own. When they broke the kiss, he brought her closer to him. Sybil hugged him so tight it was difficult to think straight. The situation did not improve when she whispered in his ear that he was the first man to kiss her. He smiled, thinking of all the cold, bitter nights he had spent waiting in the car, outside a random mansion full of pretentious people, thinking how many of those stuck-up lads were lusting after his Sybil (because, yes, he had started using the possessive before her name long before it was even thinkable his love could be reciprocated.)

Branson covered her lips with his again, enjoying the softness of her mouth and the warmth of her body, so close he had a difficult time believing it was even happening in real life. And, young reckless man as he was (had always been, really) he moved his lips to the side of her neck. A moan escaped her mouth which caused a difficult fight with himself. He had never made a woman moan with just a kiss in her neck, and he could not help thinking of how connected they seemed to be, how beautiful it would feel to be with her intimately. He had to admit that he himself was on the verge of losing control and dragging her into something she might regret in the future. Then again, he may not even have a future, but that did not mean he could shatter hers. So, difficult as it was, he broke the embrace and asked her to get changed back into her clothes. He left to get his before he had the opportunity of taking his words back and forgetting about the rest of the world.

Sybil put on her clothes and dragged her feet back to the hall. Tom was there, back in his uniform, looking serious and not a bit like the man who had her in his arms just minutes before that. He asked, cold and professional whether she was ready for the trip back to Downton, and even referred to her as "Lady Sybil." It angered her so much she began the longest of rants about how she was sorry if she had been somehow inappropriate or a terrible kisser, but she did deserve something better than all those "miladies" he was giving her. She could see him smiling, which fuelled her anger to no end. She hated with all her soul when he smiled at her being furious. It made her want to kiss him and slap him in equal shares.

"But I've always enjoyed thinking of you as *my* lady," he teased, as he took her gloved hands in his.

"Tom, this is not a joke. Not for me, at least," she complained.

"Not for me either," he stared into her eyes, "I'm yours, Sybil Crawley. Whatever happens during the war, whatever happens after that, I'll always be yours."

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><p>Sybil sighted, remembering that magic day that had happened what seemed like a century before. Wherever she went, no matter how much time went by, that memory would always stay with her. There was an impatient knock on the bathroom door:<p>

"Sybil, I'll fall asleep. I swear I'll do if you keep me waiting any longer. I've spent the whole day talking to very boring people and I'm very able to fall asleep right now. And if I do, none of your charms will wake me up."

She shook her head and smiled.

"I somehow doubt that, darling," she said, while opening the door to find her husband as awake as a man could be.

A few years after that Socialist meeting, not anymore the naive girl she had once been, she had married a politician. He wasn't the type to be often in headlines, although he honestly and tirelessly worked for his country and for equality and, most important of all, was respected by people, which made her beam with pride. They often argued and always made up, which made domestic life quite interesting and he was, all in all, a good man. A great man, if they asked Sybil. And a passionate one, in all the possible meanings of that word.

She woke up naturally while the sun was rising and, naked as she was, she covered herself with the thickest blanket to go and see it from the window. Minutes later, a smile formed in her lips when he heard him moving in bed, probably trying to find her and the missing blanket, still with his eyes closed.

"Can you believe it? What a cruel, evil woman leaving her husband to freeze to death alone in his sleep," he joked.

"You are lucky to have a wife who would find some space for you inside this blanket if you wanted to join her, aren't you?" she winked at him.

Her husband got up immediately, pretending he was about to die of cold (she wondered if his fellow politicians would know how silly he could get to be) before putting his arms around her body, covering them both with the blanket and kissing her neck while she stared at the world starting to wake up outside the window in their room.

"God, Tom, I love Dublin," she sighed.

"I'd say Dublin loves you too, Head Nurse Branson," he whispered in her ear.

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><p><strong>THE END. Hope you liked it. Reviews are always love.<strong>


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